Son of a Pig
by the return of merry
Summary: “A boy. Nasty little runt, but I expect he’ll be taken care of.” “Good, good. Everything is in order, I see. Have the body disposed of. Name the child.”A young boy is caught picking the pockets of Denethor's youngest son. Baeillian son of...Faramir?
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own in this story is the plot. You'll recognize any original characters. **

**So, this was a random idea I got because I was tres bored. Review if you like it. Review if you don't. I'm not going to be picky, but I do ask that if you are going to be negative, tell my why _politely_. Flames have very little use to me (except for laughs) because they give me nothing to work with. I enjoy reading praise and constructive criticism, hahahaha. This is just a trial, beginning chapter, by the way. I want to know what people think before I continue.**

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"_How is she_?"

"_Dead_."

"_And the baby_?"

"_A boy. Nasty little runt, but I expect he'll be taken care of."_

"_Good, good. Everything is in order, I see. Have the body disposed of. Name the child_."

"_Yes, sir_."

A heavy, oaken door at the end of the hall opened slowly, the curly, black head and boot-clad feet of man protruding from the birthing room. Small feet slapped against the heavy stone floor as a scrawny boy of about ten rose hastily to his feet, brown curls bouncing. The boy—Fenwick—took his post opening the door, a rather large yawn practically splitting his jaw in two.

"Out of the way, boy!"

The man, an unnamed benefactor of the workhouse in Minas Tirith, stormed down the hall, kicking at Fenwick's shins as he passed. The Benefactor was not pleased tonight. Not at all. Yet another slut had come stumbling through the stone walls that he paid for so dearly, dragging her filthy sinner's feet through _his_ hallways, laying her disgusting arse down on a bed _he_ paid for. And what did she do, the nasty thing? She up and died. Just kicked it right there, lying on the semi-clean sheets of the bed he had contributed toward. Good, hard-inherited money, that was. The least the woman could have done was leave a name, an address, something. Anything to give them a clue where the bill should be sent to. But she left absolutely nothing. Not a thing, except for a runty bastard child that would now have to be fed with food _he _paid for, clothed in rags...well, he didn't really pay for those. Those were donated. But the point for him was, the poor were horribly ungrateful anymore. All they did was beg, beg, beg. Never a thanks. Never a bit of gold for the trouble. Not a single damn thing, and he was tired of it.

"Filthy whore," he muttered, and exited the building.

"What shall we call you, hmm? What shall Old Braella call the unwanted child of a prostitute?" The baby cooed. Braella continued. "That's what you are, you know, you dirty little devil. You're a bastard and a beggar and all that is unholy in this world, but we're giving you a place to sleep, you little pig. Food to eat, a blanket. And when you get older, you'll be working for us. Got to repay those that have helped, you know."

The baby continued to smile, seemingly pleased by the old krone's grudging affection. She rocked him, more gently than would have been expected, pausing every now-and-then to straighten the bit of sackcloth that had been tied around the child to hide his nakedness.

"Baeillian," she decided. "Baeillian the Bold. Hasn't no orphan like yourself ever smiled at me like that before. You're plenty bold and plenty stupid, my dear bastard-boy. Plenty bold. The Master was to break your neck, but Braella told him no. I saved your life, I did, whore-child. Saved your life. Plenty bold..." The old woman went on mumbling nonsensical things, still rocking the boy in her wrinkled arms, crooked back bent even farther than usual by the strain of holding the tiny baby. "Oh, yes, plenty bold..."


	2. Chapter Two

**Thank you to the wonderful reviewers! For those who have not yet reviewed, please do. **

**And here the story picks up. The first chapter was like a prologue. It's going to start now with the boy at his proper age, nine.**

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A dull clanging in the belfry rang through the city of Minas Tirith, hitting each level within moments of the other. The people were beginning to awake. Five o'clock was morning for most, and the children of the stone city's orphan's home were no exception.

"Up you get, lads! Be quick about it, or Matron'll be on all our arses."

Baeillian rolled over in his bed, cracking an eyelid open wearily. Mornings were his worst hour. He always had trouble waking up. Rubbing his eyes with a grimy fist, he sat up and surveyed the room around him.

The boy's room in the orphan's home was a large, stone chamber, with dirt-covered, boarded-up windows, and cold flagstone flooring. The beds were rows of wooden boxes, each with a raggedy blanket, a pewter bowl, and a wooden spoon. The boys themselves were dressed in beggar's clothes, some too small, some too large. Worn shirts, heavy, woollen breeches, thin, woollen jackets and a variety of cloth caps. Proper boots were anovelty, most being full of holes and weathered leather. Baeillian slipped into his brown boots, fingers brushing gently over the torn leather and up to jam a green cap over his unruly black hair. Ocean-blue eyes blinked rapidly. He snatched up his bowl and spoon, falling in line behind an older boy with red hair and freckles.

"I'm 'ungry," a small boy near the front muttered. The redhead kicked his backside, slapping the hat off his small head.

"We're _all _hungry, Caspar. Hungry enough to eat small boys like yourselves, so shut your mouth, or you're my next breakfast."

Caspar gulped, replacing his cap with trembling hands, blue eyes wide with fright. "I'm on'y 'ungry, and 'm little. Can't help it, you know."

The elder boy only sighed, shaking his carrot-top head in disgust.

O O O

"Three coins, or it's nothing for you..."

"A _hen_. It's a _hen_, not a rooster..."

"Oh, for the sake of the Gods, put your coat on, boy..."

"An 'orse! Look Mummy, a big 'orse!"

"Out of the way, nobility coming through. Step aside please."

Baeillian shoved his fists into his pockets, quickly nabbing a hard candy from a passing vendor. The streets of Minas Tirith were crowded with beggars and nobility, street-vendors and thieves. Baeillian liked to consider himself a businessman. He was always on the lookout for the next opportunity, keeping his eyes peeled and his ears sharp for open pockets. His stomach grumbled loudly, attracting the attention of a nearby bread boy. The boy held up a large wicker basket, motioning to the treasures inside.

"A loaf for only 'alf a copper. Good deal, this. Only 'alf a copper."

Baeillian frowned. "Sorry, no money." The bread boy shook his head sadly, catching on to the sleeve of a young woman.

"One loaf for a copper. Good deal, this. Only one copper."

Seizing his chance, Baeillian darted toward the wicker basket, small hands grabbing a penny loaf and quickly disappearing from view. He ran through the crowded streets, leather feet slapping the stone ground with each step. A good deal indeed, he thought, satisfied as he bit of a sizeable chunk. It wasn't high-quality, but it did enough to line his stomach.

"Green tea! Fresh herbs! Cheap, good-quality herbs!"

A balding man with a tray held around his neck was calling loudly to the masses, holding his wares out to passing women and any other possible buyers. Finished with his penny loaf, Baeillian snuck his hand into the loaded basket of a passing old krone, pulling out a slightly bruised red apple. What did he care for bruises, anyway? Food was food, and that was all he wanted. The thin lentil soup they served at the orphan's home did little for his ever-hungry stomach. Only his hands could bring what he needed.

"Catch up, you lazy little knave. We haven't got all day, you know."

Baeillian's head shot up from his apple, sticky juice dribbling down his chin. Two men walked past him, one rather large and muscular, wearing the outfit of a Gondorian officer. The other was slight, with dark hair and the uniform of a ranger. Officers usually kept a small purse on their belts, he thought. They were filled with gold in case the men needed them for a trip to the pub or the brothel. Beaillian stole forward, his eyes gleaming eagerly. He could make good money on this. At least enough for a mug of ale or a bowl of something at the Broken Handle. More than enough, even.

He followed the two, weighing out the circumstances in his head. The larger of the men would be easier to lose in the crowd of midday shoppers. But, on the off chance he didn't manage to get away, the larger would probably be stronger, therefore much more capable of delivering a violent beating than his smaller companion. The slight man, on the other hand, wore his belt at a better position for small hands to slit his purse and catch a few coins. He chose the smaller man.

Slipping into step behind them, Baeillian pulled a small knife from the bit of sackcloth he kept around his waist as a belt. The soft leather of the purse split instantly, spilling out a small fortune in gold. The boy collected the coins, cheeks turning pink with excitement. This was far more than he ever would have expected to get. Far more than any of the other lads had ever collected before in their lives. He would be wealthy. He could buy food and a pair of new boots. Maybe even a blanket of his new budget allowed. The possibilities were endless.

Shoving the last of the gold into his pocket, Baeillian fell back. He was just turning away when a loud, "Stop, thief!" rang out behind him. The slight man and his bulky companion had discovered the empty purse and were charging toward him, accusing faces red with what might have been considered anger. "Stop the lad! He's slit the Lord Faramir's purse!"

The Lord Faramir!

Faramir, Denethor's youngest son. The beloved younger brother of the heir to the stewardship himself. And here they were—both sons—running at him like crazed horses. He darted into a narrow alley between a blacksmith's shop and a small bakery, breathing shallow and labored, large, blue-green eyes full of fear. Fear of prison. Fear of having to face the Steward's boys, the population of the second level of the city. He ran furiously down a narrow street, getting nearer to the Broken Handle Pub and the Gray Lady Brothel. Good God in Heaven, what had he done to deserve this mess?

"Catch that boy! He's robbed the Steward's son! Catch him!"

His feet pounded against the cracked ground. Baeillian glanced around wildly, chancing a look back to check the progress of his pursuers. They had yet to round the corner. Taking this in stride, he dropped behind a three-wheeled cart, crouching in the filth of the gutters, skinny body trembling.

"Catch him! He's gone straight forward!"

About twenty pairs of feet raced passed, some in new, expensive-looking boots, some barefoot. A wicker basket dropped in front of the cart, and he recognized it as the basket the bread boy had been using to hold his penny loaves.

"Where's he gone, the devil?"

The voices faded. Cautiously, Baeillian peeked his head out through the spokes of a broken wheel, eyes darting over the dingy street. A pair of weathered, mud-stained boots obstructed his view. He followed them up two legs, a leather jerkin, a slit purse, and right to the face of Lord Faramir. He didn't look very pleased.

"Rotten little bugger, aren't we? Nicking the gold of a young officer on the day he returns home to see his father after two years in the wilderness."

Baeillian gulped, eyes glued to the man's face. He was going to get it now. The Lord would beat him, or take him to prison, or maybe even to see the Steward himself. Faramir's face softened as he looked over the child's ragged clothes and wiry frame, the tousled black hair and the familiar blue eyes. A lovely shade of blue-green, like the waves of the sea on a calm day.

"What's your name, lad?"

Baeillian shook his head. "Haven't any."

"Parents?"

"Haven't any of those, either," the boy said matter-of-factly, scrunching his dirty nose.

"Where do you live?" Faramir's brow furrowed, his face darkening. Either the boy was being deliberately unhelpful, or he was telling the truth. He didn't know which one he would rather it be.

"The orphan's home, but I don't live _there_ no more."

"And you haven't any name? None at all?"

Baeillian shrugged. "Baeillian's what they named me, but it won't do you no good. I dun think they even know I live there—lived there." He fingered the gold in his pocket, watching Faramir closely. Why was the man being kind? Why hadn't he done anything yet?

"And why did you steal my money?" Faramir crossed his arms, eyebrows knitted together in what could have been mistaken for ire.

The boy shrugged again. "I was hungry."

Such a simple answer. Faramir, who had been expecting an elaborate story, was taken aback by the child's straight-forward response. Having grown up in the world of politics and nobility, a truthful answer was a rare and valuable thing to him, something he prized above all else. Truth held many powers, especially the truth of children. "Why did you not simply ask me for money?" He was not fool enough to question how much food the boy received at his home. The answer was staring him in the face.

"I don't beg," the child said simply. "And I don't ask. I takes what I need for me own hunger and use the rest for clothes and such."

Yet another answer that took him by surprise. He was a clever boy not to use all of the money on food or toys, or candy as Faramir had often been guilty of as a small child. Clever, maybe it was just need. Want and need. "How old are you, Baeillian?"

Baeillian thought long and hard, brain switching gears to take him back to the last time he'd heard his own age. He wasn't certain of is birthday, and only knew how old he was when told. "Nine, last time I checked, but it changes all the time."

Faramir laughed.

"Nine, then, and nine is far too young to be slitting purses and nicking food from street-vendors. Boys need food and good clothes, and I think I know just the place where you can find them."

"Where?"

He smiled, extending his hand. "The Citadel, of course. We have a lovely kitchen. I'm sure you'd be welcomed there."


	3. Chapter Three

**Ah yes, standardized testing is finally over, and I am back writing!** **Here's the next chapter. Hope you like.**

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The Citadel was a true mystery to Baeillian, as were its inhabitants. From the very moment Lord Faramir had brought him to the place, the boy felt as though he had stepped into some kind of make-believe land. It seemed to him that the higher one went into the city, the cleaner people got. Even the servants here had nice clothes, but the true mystery to Baeillian was Lord Denethor.

The Steward was nothing like the stories the other boys told at the orphanage. He was not inhumane or cruel, nor was he exceptionally warm or paternal. He did not beat his attendants with the White Rod as so many children would claim, and he did not spoil his sons. He wasn't a giant, as little Frenik used to tell. Indeed, he couldn't have stood higher than six feet two inches, which was shorter than his older son, Lord Boromir, had measured up to. The only truth that Baeillian had ever heard spoken was something Lochlan the blacksmith's wife, Eithne, had said once.

"_The Steward is a very closed man. I met him once, when my boy, Oran, was killed in Ithilien. You don't seen _anything_ in the Lord Denethor—not in his face, his lips, his eyes—nothing. He's got some kind of power in him, anyone could sense it, but be sure if you eve meet him, it's not so easy to look that man in the eye. Not so easy at all." _

From his own meeting with the Steward, Baeillian could say from experience that not a single person in Minas Tirith had ever uttered a truer word. Lord Denethor was the most imposing man the boy had ever met, and that included all sixteen of the orphanage's benefactors. Denethor had something about him—an air, perhaps—of dignity and strength that only existed in the stories of old. Baeillian had been taken to meet the man instantly upon his and Lord Faramir's arrival at the Citadel. Faramir was coming to greet his father after years of absence, while Baeillian was being introduced to his sovereign.

"_My Lord." Faramir dropped gracefully to his knees, motioning for Baeillian to do the same. Denethor rose, extending his hand so that Faramir could kiss the heavy ring on the man's finger. Baeillian stood off to the side with a page, watching the scene with wide eyes, truly fascinated. He wasn't used to any of this. Manners, protocol, all of this was foreign to him. _

"_Rise, my son, and tell your father how you have fared in the wild. I received news of illness." The Steward smiled slightly, a proud look stealing his dark eyes for only a moment before being replaced by their usual blocked, guarded expression. _

_Standing, Faramir said slowly, "Myself and a small group of men were hunting down a pack of Orcs, my Lord. We were rained on, and I fell ill. It was nothing serious, according to Murtag, but I am lucky. It could have been much worse, I am told." _

_Denethor nodded serenely, his eyes flickering over the young lord in an obvious attempt to read him. "That is good to hear. I'll expect you to share your adventures over dinner, but as of right now, I believe you have more you wished to tell." _

_Faramir nodded and reached for Baeillian, who stumbled forth hesitantly. The boy was absolutely petrified by the mere thought of having to meet this frightening man of whom he had heard so many stories. Still, curiosity was taking its strong hold on him, and he found himself kneeling before the Steward, head bowed, trying to clear the buzzing from his ears so that he might hear the man give him permission to rise. A tap on his shoulder told him that he had missed that permission, and was probably looking quite the fool in front of these noblemen. He pulled himself quickly to his feet, uncomfortably aware of Lord Denethor's scrutinizing glare. _

"_You aren't a thief, are you, boy?" The voice was loud in his delicate ears, harsh, even. Slowly, he came back to his senses and shook his head. _

"_No, sir...Well, everyone steals, my Lord, but I'm no thief. I just take what I need to live, an' the rest I leave, cause it isn't really mine." _

_Surprised by such an honest answer, Denethor allowed the slightest hint of a smile to play on his lips, but only for an instant. Baeillian licked his lips nervously, chancing a glance at Faramir for reassurance. Faramir jerked his head lightly. _

"_My son wishes you to remain here, to live in the Citadel, but can you be trusted? Have you any relations that will search for you? Are you running from any crimes?" The man was so serious, his steely gaze so piercing, that Baeillian never had a chance to think up a proper reply. _

"_The Matron don't trust me, Lord, but I don't think it means I'm not trusty. She won't be looking for me, neither. I haven't done anything so long as I can remember,"—he glanced at Faramir anxiously—",but I s'pose you shouldn't have nothing to worry about with me, sir. I'm very quiet, and I don't make a mess." _

_Denethor was searching the boy's face, checking every small detail, each splay of emotion. There was nervousness in this face, and a hardened look that could only have come from a difficult life. Blue eyes stared at him from a thin, pale face. The boy, with his black curls andocean-colored eyes, had a sad sort of beauty to him, a familiar melancholy that Denethor could never forget. It was a scholar's face. He felt nauseous just looking at it. There was something in that face, something that brought to mind the face of another boy, a little boy with wide, sad eyes and feathery black curls. _

"_Have a room arranged for him," the Lord snapped, waving his hand to dismiss both Faramir and the boy. "Feed him, get him bathed and have some clothes fitted to him. I expect you for dinner by nightfall, Faramir. Leave the boy to his rooms and be sure he doesn't take anything."_

Baeillian swung his feet over the edge of the wooden bed he'd been given, small, slender fingers stroking a soft green blanket tenderly. It was the softest cloth he'd ever felt. It must have cost quite a sum of money.

The boy had been sitting in his new room since the meeting with Lord Denethor, and he was very confused. Had he done something wrong, perhaps, to make the man so cross? Was it something he said? He didn't think so, but the mystery of it all would not go away. Still, he had nice new clothes, didn't he? The Steward couldn't have been too angry if he'd done that much for the boy. His new tunic was softer than he could ever remember his clothes being before. It was dark blue to match everything else in the Citadel. His shirt was clean and white, with no tears in the sleeves and hems. His new breeches were gray and made of wool. They were a bit itchy on his newly cleaned skin, but he liked them all the same. The best bit, in Baeillian's mind, was getting new boots. His own were old and filled with holes. One could only imagine the excitement he felt receiving a new pair of brown, leather boots. They were only a little big, but the warmth and comfort they gave his feet overpowered that small detail.

Peering in the looking glass for what must have been the tenth time, he finally dropped onto his bed, pulling the green blanket over his head. Baeillian's reflection was a wonder to him. He was used to looking in puddles and spoons to see his face, and was surprised at the sight of the well-dressed boy in his mirror. Where his skin had once been gray and smudged with dirt, it was now revealed to be a delicate, almost porcelain-like pale. His black hair, no longer tangled and dirty, fell in soft curls about his face. Curious blue eyes stared out of the angelic little face, blinking as long, thin fingers brushed a lock of hair from in front of them.

He rather liked himself now.

A light knock at the door brought Baeillian out of his pleasant thoughts with a jolt. Carefully folding the blanket, he placed it at the end of the bed and went to see who could be knocking.

"Yes?"

A boy of about thirteen stood before him, a silver tray balanced precariously in his skinny arms. He smiled pleasantly at Baeillian, politely requesting permission to "set out the food for Lord Faramir's guest". Nodding happily, Baeillian showed the older boy to a small table that had been pushed against one wall.

"Thank you. I've been very hungry," he said, smiling in a friendly fashion.

"I would imagine so." The older boy spoke in a kindly manner, with a slight air of education about him. Baeillian, who had never heard a person so young speak so well, was fascinated. "The Lord Faramir requested I tell you that he will come to see you later, after he dines with the Lord Denethor. It should only be another hour or so. The Steward gets ill if he's with his son for too long."

"Does he?" Baeillian inquired, curiosity written all over his face.

The boy nodded. "Oh, yes. He gets migraines. That's what the healers call them. My older brother is in training to be a healer. Deaglan. He's very intelligent, my brother. If you should ever have the chance to meet him, tell him you know me. I'm Davin, just so you know. Training to be in the service myself, but Deaglan's always been against war. He doesn't like violence so much." Davin's face glowed with pride as he spoke of his brother. Deaglan must have meant a lot to his younger sibling.

"I'm Baeillian, and I haven't got any older brothers, unless you count the other boys in the home, but I don't think you would, because we're not actually kin." He shook Davin's hand, blue eyes scanning over the boy's brown hair and green eyes. He was a pretty boy, someone the girls would like and the boys would hate and envy.

"Pleasure to meet you, Baeillian. I'll have to be leaving just now, but if you should ever have need of me, call for a maid and ask my name. They'll help you." With that, Davin was gone, leaving Baeillian alone with a platter of chicken and greens. He tore a piece of bread from a small loaf at the edge of the platter, stuffing bits of chicken and asparagus into his mouth hastily. Food was always eaten quickly in the orphanage. The boys weren't kind about slow eaters, and if one didn't eat fast enough, his food would be taken before he could call "thief".

His evening meal was long finished when Baeillian finally heard a strong, steady knock on his door. Before he could utter a single word, it opened and in came Lord Faramir himself. The man looked to be in a poor mood, but he smiled at the sight of Baeillian.

"They've done a good job of cleaning you up, I see. Remind me to implore Father not to beat the service with his stick again."

Baeillian gulped. "So...so he really does that, then?"

Faramir laughed, his kind eyes crinkling at the edges in a nice way. "Of course not, boy. It was a jest. You mustn't pay so much heed to rumors. Half the people who spread them have no idea what they are talking about to being with." The young lord took a seat on Baeillian's bed, searching the room with his eyes. It was probably far better than anything the child had ever had before, and he was pleased to see that the boy had been accommodated nicely. "And your meal, how was that?"

The boy sat nervously at his small table, fingers tracing over the smooth wood. "Good. I've never had chicken what tasted so good before, or bread that didn't crumble when I broke it." He looked over the empty plate, feeling ill at ease in the presence of the man responsible for having him taken to the Citadel in the first place. What if Faramir changed his mind and decided Baeillian was no good after all? Would he be sent back to the streets?

At long last, Faramir broke the uncomfortably silence. Grinning jovially, he asked, "And what did you think of the Lord Denethor? Is he what you expected him to be?"

"Oh, no. Not at all, Lord," Baeillian frowned. "Did you really fall ill fighting a _whole pack_ of Orcs?" His eyes were alight with wonder and excitement. Faramir sighed.

Looking pained, he said, "Between you and me, I was drunk and fell into a pond, but I doubt the Steward would have accepted such an answer, don't you?" For some reason, he found it inexplicably easy to speak with this boy. Faramir had always been a shy, reserved creature. He kept to himself, read a few books, dabbled in music, and then finally joined the military. Unless he was drunk, socializing had never come easily to him. That was more of Boromir's speciality. Boromir could sway an entire company of men with a single word.

"Oh." Baeillian sounded disappointed. He fiddled with the sleeved of his shirt, wiping his mouth. "My father was in the military. He died in an Orc-raid. He was very brave, my father was." In actuality, the boy had never learned a single fact about his birth father. He did, however, have an active imagination that was quite easily influenced by stories and news.

"Was he? He must have been very brave. Orcs are frightening creatures." Gazing gravely at the child, Faramir stood and, straightening his clothes, asked softly, "Have you made any friends yet? Several of the working-boys here are rather friendly, although some are—how should I put it?—not." He was, in fact, thinking of a certain occasion on his twelfth birthday when an older boy who worked in the kitchens and a young page joined together to give him what they considered a well-deserved beating.

Baeillian looked up quickly, a large grin on his face. "Do you know Davin? He's training to be in the military. His older brother Deaglan's going to be a healer."

A troubled look passed over Faramir's pale face. He knew Deaglan well, and the younger boy, Davin. They were good-natured people, and very easy to get along with. They also had quite a few problems in the Citadel, none of which Faramir wanted his new charge to be involved with. "Yes, I know Deaglan, Davin as well. They are good people, the both of them. You should get along well with them." Baeillian raised his eyebrows.

"I'm awfully tired," he yawned, stretching his arms, "Can I sleep soon?"

Laughing, Faramir passed by the boy, giving him a small nod. "I'll be by in the morning, and I expect my brother will want to meet you. He intends on giving you fencing lessons." He shook his head fondly, scratching his chin, "If it were up to Boromir, I think all of Middle-Earth would be well-versed in fencing. He loves his swords." Turning back, he said quietly, "May the Gods grant you pleasant dreams, boy."

Baeillian rolled over on his small bed, basking in the comfort of a real mattress and clean blankets. With a soft whisper, he snuffed out his candle and fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.

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**Okay, so that's the end of it for today. I've got rehearsal, so I'm just putting this up for you all. Hope you enjoyed it. I'll try to get the next chapter up shortly.**


	4. Chapter Four

The days for Baeillian seemed to pass in a cloud of bliss. He noticed not the whispers of the servants when his back was turned, nor the filthy looks received by young Davin, who had become his ally and friend. Today, his new friend was in the scullery, taking care of one of the chamber maids. She was said to have contracted the grippe, or something equally as horrible. Deaglan was there as well, but Faramir had given his young charge specific instructions to stay away from the sickly maid.

'No use in you having the consumption, is there?'

Baeillian, who was well-used to mention of the consumption after having lost several childhood friends to it, had to agree.

And so it was that the boy found himself wandering about the Citadel, hands stuffed into the pockets of his breeches. He enjoyed traipsing through the drafty corridors, watching the comings and goings of the place with detached amusement.

'Is this the little runt my brother has been carrying on about for three days?'

A giant stood before him, hands resting on broad, muscular hips. A giant . . . in the uniform of a soldier of Gondor? From his limited knowledge, Baeillian knew that this man must be of a higher rank than a simple Infantryman, or even Citadel Guard. He blinked, resting his eyes on the giant's beaming face. Dark hair, light eyes. Why, the man looked like . . . .

'My Lord, Boromir!'

The giant - Boromir - chuckled. It sounded throaty, as if the sound travelled a long way until it reached the man's tongue. He did not seem nearly so large now.

'Baeillian the Bold, I take it!'

Drawing himself to his full height - which wasn't much to begin with - Baeillian adopted what he thought to be a brave, manly expression. His eyebrows knit together, eyes gleaming with pride at having been recognised by Gondor's finest. Or, one of them.

'Erm, yes, my lord, sir,' he stumbled, cheeks flushing pink. Boromir was reminded forcibly of another young boy stuttering over his words in the excitement of seeing his brother after a long absence.

Brushing the thoughts from his mind, the man said quickly, 'I must find my father, lad, but I expect you and I shall be seing quite a bit of one another.' He winked, pushing past the skinny boy - who still had a large grin on his face - and giving an over-the-shoulder sort of wave that made Baeillian feel as though he had known the man forever.

From there, the day could only get better, although nothing compared to the thrill of meeting Lord Denethor's eldest in person. The boys would never believe this!

In fact, they probably wouldn't. Baeillian the Bold was known for a lot more in the orphan's home than his boldness. A filthy liar was what he was. A lie and a cheat and a thief on top of that. Most anything the boy ever said was fabricated. 'My father was a brave soldier,' he had told Bronn, who was a year older and almost criminally gullible. 'Almost as good as Lord Boromir. He saved the Lord's life and won a load of money, only he spent it all on a ring for my mother, and that's how come I'm here and not in his a'state.'

The next time he told that lie, Baeillian made sure to add a graphic account of Lord Boromir's near-death encounter, and how his father had courageously joined the fray, though his sword had already been badly broken on the head of an orc. Jènfar hadn't bought it for a moment. He knew a great deal ̊of things, Jènfar did. He used to live with his parents on the Pelennor, and his father had been very clever.

After all of the years they had known him, the boys would never believe Baeillian had done anything here. 'You're telling tales, Baeillian,' they would laugh. 'Bet you went out behind the Broken Handle and had your bit.'

He sat on a bench in the corridor, swinging his feet miserably. The Lord Faramir would send him back soon, and Baeillian found that he truly did not want to leave. It was all right to sneer at the nobles from the safety of his makeshift bed, but now he had a taste of a nice bed and clean clothes that fit; Baeillian wanted to stay forever.

It would never be possible, he tried to convince himself. It would never be -

'Davin!'

Davin stopped, looking puzzled.

'Davin,' Baeillian snorted, rising from his bench regally. It sent shivers down the other boy's spine, for the scrawny child had just looked like - 'How does one come about a job in the citadel?'

And now Davin was truly confused. A job? What did a boy who was staying as the Lord Faramir's guest need to worry about a job for? Surely he realised they would not be making him pay for the time he spent in the citadel?

'My brother,' he explained, nose wrinkled. 'Why? You haven't got any need for a job, have you?'

Baeillian shrugged, raising his eyebrows and trying to appear nonchalant. 'They will send me back one day, but I like it here. I could work in the kitchens, or something, or maybe be a - what is it you do?'

'Run errands,' Davin answered almost immediately.

'Right - I could run errands, and I don't need much - '

'They won't let you have a job, I don't think.'

Baeillian's face fell. How could he return to the lower circles of the city after knowing all of this?

'I mean,' Davin continued, oblivious to his friend's mounting panic, 'I've never heard of guests having to work here.'

Oh.

Well, that changed everything.

'How long shall I be a guest, before they send me back?'

And here Davin laughed. It was not a mocking laugh, or anything of the sort. 'I don't expect they _shall _be sending you back, at least not anytime soon.' At Baeillian's bemused face, he added, 'Lord Faramir likes you, doesn't he? He pretends to listen to the Steward, because it would be setting a bad example not to, but if he wants you to stay, bank on staying until the citadel is under siege, and even then they would have to tear you from his very arms.' Perhaps it was a bit of an exaggeration, but Baeillian looked as though Yuletide had come early.

'Good gods,' he repeated, again and again. Davin went back to the kitchens with a smile on his face. It did not last long.

Straightening from his crouched position on the floor, Deaglan pulled back his hair in aggravation.

'We've lost Magathea.'

O O O

'If it hadn't been for that horrid - '

' - could wring his scrawny neck - '

' - 'tisn't natural, a boy like that - '

' - letting that filthy thing in the citadel - '

' - and they wonder why our armies lose more battles than they win anymore - '

' - could have saved her - '

' - filthy creature - '

Cautious to keep out of sight, Baeillian sneaked behind a heavy barrel, his black head all but disappearing in the gathering dark below-ground. The kitchens ought to have been empty this time of night. He had come for a drink and some bread, but the heavy voices in the wine room had distracted the boy, and he quickly found himself taking cover as he recognised four of the kitchen men standing in a circle. They looked near murderous as they hovered above a lumpy white sheet. He had not been able to tell what they were so intent on discussing at first, but as the conversation carried on, Baeillian gasped. Him. They were talking about him. His first thought was that men such as this had no place insulting him. They were grown men, after all, and what had he done to them?

The words struck his ears like the butcher's fist.

' - would that I could kill the bastard with my own two hands - '

The one who had spoken stopped, coughing into a thick tankard. Baeillian chose this moment to make his escape. It was a curious sight, four men gathered about a human-sized lump wrapped in a sheet, and small boy scampering out from behind the wine barrel, boot-clad feet clacking in the vast kitchen. Not a soul heard him. Whether they were too drunk or too angry, Baeillian could not but begin to guess.

He should have stayed longer, for no sooner had he run out than the coughing man set down his wine, cleared his throat, and snarled, 'No doubt 'twas a cursed day when Deaglan of Lossarnach entered the citadel.'

And so it was.

O O O

Baeillian had found his way outside with minutes to spare, a bundle of clothing tucked under one arm, eyes wild. There was no choice - he must leave the citadel, forever. Lord Faramir must never find him again.

He fastened the bundle, taking great care not to drop the spare bits of clothing, for they would be useful come winter. He would go to the Grey Lady, where there was always a bit of floor to curl up on. He could stay there for a few days, relatively unnoticed, before setting out to wherever Lord Faramir could not find him.

_Only a thief fled in the night_.

Had he glanced back, the boy would have noticed the light at the window in the first floor, and the small face peering out at him from the balcony. He did not look back, however, as was the way in the orphan's home. One must never look back if he hoped to move on. A cool breeze slipped through the citadel; Baeillian stepped off into the night, and behind him, Boromir of Gondor called for his boots.


	5. Chapter Five

He would love to have stayed behind, to experience the feather mattress once more, to have a bath and eat the lovely roast chicken and potatoes and bread Davin had promised could be brought to him every night. He could not return to the orphan's home now, not after experiencing fine life in the Citadel. Baeillian stared hopelessly at the expanse of black before him. The gates to the upper circle were shut tight, but there was always a crevice through which a small boy could slip through.

'_Gníomhaichtaí a athrú_!'

Behind him, the gates were teaming with life as the guard changed with its usual ceremony. Much as he would love to have watched, Baeillian hurried on. To be out of this place, for good, away from enemies, was what he needed most.

'_Bheith ar aire, bheith ullamh_!'

The clamour of the guards faded slowly into the background. No longer worried about being seen or followed, Baeillian broke into a brisk run. He was out of breath long after the third circle. The children's home, by some ill-fated stroke of luck, was just below in the second circle, which meant he would have to travel lower still, to the very first.

Pulling his tiny frame through a drainage hole in the wall, Baeillian took a deep breath, and stepped out into the dingy streets of the Lower City.

----

Boromir of Gondor was not a hunter. Large, bulky, and full of air, he could no more hunt than sew a dressing gown. The Lower City was just ahead, the entrance to the second level lit dimly by flickering lanterns. Above, a guard dozed noisily from his perch, and Boromir slipped forward into the dark.

This gate could not be cleared by any visible means, and waking the guard would take ages. The last gate had been sceptical of him as it was. He glanced forlornly at the gate once more, heavy boots pinching the tips of his toes in the cool night air, and the gods granted a stroke of fortune.

Just ahead, barely visible in the thick blanket of darkness that encompassed the city, a tiny body was pressed against the stone wall.

_The sneaky little scoundrel_!

Stealth, another of Boromir's weak points, required that he move with care. Not a loose stone could be stepped on, lest the boy take fright and run.

'_Stop_!'

A skinny wrist shot out for the wall, but Boromir snatched it from the air midway, his fist clenched over bones that felt too tiny and fragile to be allowed. The boy shied away, raising the free arm to shield his face as he cringed.

'_Le do thoil_,' pleaded Baeillian, flinching as the grip on his wrist was tightened ever-so-slightly. 'Please, lord, please, let go of me.'

He almost did. Almost.

The boy turned his pathetic eyes upward, long lashes fluttering nervously, and Boromir was transported back, ages back, to another little boy with those same, pleading eyes.

'What have you stolen?' he breathed, his face centimetres from the child's trembling lashes.

'Please,' said Baeillian again. He thought once of Lord Faramir and the feather mattress. Of Davin, and Deaglan, and the lovely food that never stopped delivering itself to his door at mealtimes. A level below lay the orphan's home. Below. That was his lot in life. His features hardened, lips twisting into a snarl, and Boromir let go. '_Go raibh maith agat, ah Thiarna. Go rabh míla maith agat_.'

Lord Boromir of Gondor, who won every arguement by mere force of will, who could not be matched in a test of strength, watched the tiny body clamber through a drainage hole and turned back toward the Citadel, toward home.

-----

Ruben Slate was a dishonest man. He knew it, his mother knew it, his wife knew it. He stole, and lied, and cheated the Steward's ration programme far too often to be considered decent or honourable in any sense of the word. Ruben hated work of any kind, but made a point to stroll through each level of the Lower City on a daily basis, nicking bread and meat and exotic fruits - none of which could be afforded on his wife's meagre salary washing clothes.

At the moment, Slate was heading back home, pockets loaded with gold from a long night at the dice, his head swimming pleasantly. He swayed, caught mid-way through an old soldier's song he had picked up in a brothel and knocked into something very small. Small and solid.

Ruben was drunk.

Baeillian was afraid.

'Whered'youthinkyergoin?' Words stuck together as if they had been coated in a thick layer of molasses. 'What'dyehthingyerdoin? Bumpinintameissit?'

To the honest, common man, these words would have been indistinguishable and passed off almost immediately as the drunken gibberish of a man in desperate need of a cold mug of tea, but to Baeillian, they were a threat. Baeillian understood Drunk, understood the dull anger burning in the man's incensed eyes, the curl to his greasy lips. _Out of the frying pan and into the fire_.

'I'm walking,' he replied tartly. The man reeled back.

'Thasso? Where'dyerwalkinto? Yerwalkintomeareyeh?'

'No. I'm walking. Just walking.'

He kept his eyes trained fixedly on the man's shiny face. That was the trick to people who were bigger and stronger. They couldn't stand to be looked in the eye by a child. Ever.

Ruben Slate was no ordinary man. He was a dishonest man, and, unlike most dishonest men, was proud of his criminal activity and general dishonesty. He had no qualms about staring down a nine year-old. Nor, indeed, had he any problems swinging his fist into the air, poised to strike (albeit clumsily) at the boy's curly black head.

The swing missed by inches, and the hand was back. Panting, Baeillian tensed his body and waited. The drunk was slow, but strong. He had a purpose to his fists.

'Runfermmeareyeh?'

And as the fist came crashing down, as he felt the blow before it struck, Baeillian had an epiphany of sorts. Raising two skinny arms, he pushed the fist away. Ruben was strong, but he was drunk. Baeillian pushed with his entire body. Panting, sweating, his heart pounding. He pushed, and Ruben fell.

He did not need to hear the crack of bone on heavy rock to know that Ruben Slate would never again be a dishonest man. A dead man is no kind of man at all.


End file.
